


Atlantis

by ratpoet



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: (I guess?) - Freeform, Angst, M/M, Occasional fluff, Poetry, post-modernism, verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-03 10:49:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 2,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6607852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratpoet/pseuds/ratpoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Atlantis, Derek Nurse's debut poetry novel and personally-published chapbook, was released on the 14th of February, 2025, for online distribution. </p><p>While fans have long debated the primary subject of the novel- the redheaded boy the poet is in love with - Derek Nurse, till date, has never so much as divulged if the subject is even real.<br/>But certain resemblances to a certain red-haired college contemporary are hard to ignore.</p><p>A special edition was later compiled by the poet, with personal observations and anecdotes, for the express purpose of gifting it to his sister.</p><p>No copies of this edition were made available to the public<br/>-except this one.</p><div class="center">
  <p>________</p>
</div>OR: Nursey writes a shit-ton of poetry about Dex.
            </blockquote>





	1. dawn

THE COURSE OF A LIFE IS DECIDED AT DAWN

-somebody says this. Christens fate a phoenix, demands ashes of it.

 

The sun breaks over ice, somebody's face, another smile.

 

THE COURSE OF A LIFE IS SET UPON BY THAT GREAT BEAST: FAWN

-somebody says this, Artemis with her arrow, Cupid with his bow.

 

The sun breaks over one smile, one set of crooked teeth. The sun breaks over one pair of big ears, one boy with his shoulders, one boy with your laugh.

 

The sun breaks. 

 

 

COMMENTARY:

 

1.

I fell in love with him at Faber, on the ice:

our passes connecting,  fist-bumps on the side.

The sun falling over his shoulders, painting his body golden each time he moved.

He’s always golden when he moves.

 

It was the only way it could've been. On the ice. In the middle of hockey.

 

2.

The big ears. The bog ears.

There was a bet about Dex's pre-match superstitions at some point, just as there was a bet about everything related to Dex at some point, and, well, one thing led to another- you know how it goes. 

By the end, Dex's huge ears somehow ended up in a grainy iPhone close-up which ended up hanging on a wall in the Haus and which, eventually, finally, ended up in the trash.

[It was retrieved later by yours truly, but there's no evidence of that, so.]

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so a couple of things:  
> \- i looked up symbols for redheads, didn't expect to find anything helpful, found a myth about seafaring redheads from atlantis, and boom! - a title.  
> \- this will be updated 3 chapters at a time. Next update should be by next week, but no promises.  
> \- his sister's name is Lisa, until I find a better name.  
> \- COMMENTS AND KUDOS WOULD BE REALLY, REALLY NICE  
> \- ps you can always hmu on tumblr @ fiandvee


	2. mind setting

:

the boy in the red jersey

in the frat kitchen

in the Sunday smiles.

 

you:

clunky.

Old metal.

Horseshoe faith.

 

He:

Cogs in a wheel, a barroquet, nails driven into other nails, more nails.

Sharp edges and soft middle.

 

You:

Draped over, spread out, space a mould, time a shroud.

 

He:

a race. a must. red streaking over white. every day another fight. 

 

You:

Hopelessly falling.

 

He:

Oblivious.

 

 

COMMENTARY:

1.

Every Sunday after practice, I’d bring over stacks of videos of old matches. It was supposed to be a strategy to improve our game, learn new moves, whatever, but by the third week, Sunday morning easily flowed into night as we sank into our third marathon of the fourth Bond series. 

Jack cracked a joke, Bitty baked us pies, and Dex pelted me with buttered popcorn. None of us complained.

 

2.

His hair is _so red_. You’ve seen it, Li, you know.

But his skin is also so pale, and it just- well.

Red streaking over white. You know my favourite colours.

 

3.

This was the first poem I ever wrote for him, but I didn’t know that when I was writing it.

Sometimes I think I was the one who was oblivious.


	3. fleshed out

1.

How wide, the blush that

waxes and wanes, over your

pale, spread-eagled face.

 

2.

The terse smile, the flash

of white; millisecond teeth

in a morse beeline.

 

3.

Movement as a play,

a ploy; each action always

drawing forth my eyes.

 

4.

Each line of your face-

the alphabet of your body-

breaks words with square grace.

 

5.

These lovesick letters:

each tight word a chronicle,

all but darkened stains.

 

6.

Your spine a free curve,

the broken trajectory

of my hands to yours.

 

7.

Now: hold my gaze; now:

feel my flesh, _now_ ; drive into me,

**_now_** ;  - I wake up.

 

COMMENTARY:

I looked. I looked and I looked and I looked. In the kitchen, mid-laugh, when he was growing redder by the second but not from rage. On the ice, when he almost turned a pirouette, his empty elegance when he thought nobody was looking. On the green couch, his limbs bundled into himself, squeezed into a corner to make space. Walking to class, scowling, ready to push me off a cliff already. Everywhere. Always.

I stared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY, see if you can spot the extra syllables! 
> 
> [Nurse has no time for pesky 575 rules okay, he's more of a freeform kind of guy. That's my excuse, anyway]
> 
> PS please do leave feedback, you guys <3


	4. conflagration

The summer heat, all sickly sweet, and your popsicle skin slowly melting-

_you took a can of peaches and left them out overnight, and in the morning there were fruitflies._

_more splatter on the gravel, more rotting of the flesh._

\- Your tie is askew when you walk back in,

And I want to push you against the counter, drive my body into yours, make your flesh stand up, walk out. I want to press my chest against yours, hold your arms back, gnaw at your lips, lick the salt right off, I want to-

I don’t.

 

2.

Next year:

Ballet flats. Your waist tucked in at your waist, your skin gathered up. You tap-tap-tapping on the floor, you clap-clap-clapping to the stone. The entry of the swan, the clenching of the fist.

I think of this, I do, a fantasy or a prediction;

 _I don’t want to be alone_ and _we’ll never fall apart_ , but if we pry apart the floorboards, if you rip off your soles and force skin down my throat, if I say it, if I say this-

all we’ll find is a tourniquet.

 

3 

Every other day is drowning music, Titanic hitting a bigger iceberg, Atlantic churning a bitter sea.

The wind cuts our face raw, but you know where my heart is.

You know.

 

COMMENTARY:

1\. Being cooped up in the kitchen with him for entire days in the scorching July heat did not help me maintain my sanity.

He’d undo the first few buttons of his shirt, and I'd choke on my spit.

 

2\. He reminds me of a ballet dancer. Danseur.

Dinosaur.

 

He reminds me of a lot of things.

 

3.

He’s always known.


	5. Improvised Romeo

> Romeo sighs. Romeo eats a slice of pineapple. Romeo is forlorn. Romeo empties a can of paint over his shins. Romeo slaps his head because they’re out of washing soda again, and this was his only good pair of pants, damn it.
> 
> Romeo finds a place to put his head. Romeo finds a place to put his feet. Romeo decides he’ll never find a good place to put himself. Romeo is still forlorn. Romeo makes coffee. Romeo scalds his hands on the coffee. _O’ fuck, o’ fuck._
> 
> Romeo refuses to let go. Romeo refuses the antidote.
> 
> The evening is still not upon him. Romeo wants to get this over with. Romeo wants your body before his, an ode to being. Romeo wants his hands to be your hands. Your place to be his place.
> 
> Romeo counts flower petals. Romeo eats a rose. Romeo takes a buck knife and presses it to his chest. Romeo eats a sliver of his heart. Romeo puts the knife down.

 

 

COMMENTARY:

Dex hates Shakespeare. I know, I know. _How dare he._

But I think I might still be able to bring him around.

 


	6. Greyscale

Horror movie night: the exorcism on emily street and you are not scared of anything except yourself, which would be cool if I wasn’t scared of everything except you.

So the popcorn is stale. The night is young. The reel is moving in the dark.

If there is a monster in the closet, we won’t be able to tell.

 

“I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU” is a lot like this recycled plot, both of us recalcitrant and red but only reaching for the remote, a dead face in the mirror when we turn and gone by the time we blink.

I have not said anything yet and that makes me a ghost; you have not heard anything yet and that makes you innocent.

 

Stay gold. Even when the night wants to pull us in.

Even when the dead face in the mirror is ours.

 

Keep away.

 

COMMENTARY:

I'd have made a move, but I was- well. I was afraid.

He meant more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it for this batch of updates, and we'll be steadily moving into the angst now. But they do get together soon, so hopefully Nurse can keep his shit together until then :)
> 
> Let me know what you liked, and I'll (try to) give you more of it :3 


	7. your names

You           marrow          empty

You            knees            knock

You             holy            knuckled

You           wasted           wrath  

 

You.          scarlet            flight

You.          shrapnel           pale

 

You            dragon            teeth

You            cracked            fist     

You             golden           mace 

You              ichor              rain

 

You.            gentle            flight

You.            faded             flush

 

You             crater               lux

You             liquor              buzz

You               me                 you

You               me                 -us.

 

 

COMMENTARY:

 

I've never really been able to find the words that describe him best.

I'm not really sure they exist.

 


	8. tor(pedo/nado)

You are a freight train, and I want you to run me over.

I want you to plow into me; all this dirty snow, dirty ice, all this blood on the floor.

 

Press the bruises. The broken knuckles, broken arms: I think we could use a tourniquet. I think we could use a break.

 

The blood’s always fresh on your face, and I'd trade in these limbs for wings any day. You are Icarus with a bow, screaming at the sun, you are death doomed in the summer sky. Even so; even then; Dedalus had a death wish. We just leave that out of the fables.

 

You flash your headlights in the dark, and I am the deer, now, I am the moth caught in the glare. I am the fawn, and I cannot move.

It’s: there’s just a little light outside your door, and you want to run out in the rain, in the forest. And: the candles are melting all over your floor, leaving their paper lily smell in all the corners of your house, drenching it in demon smoke. See also: the world is hurtling at a thousand miles an hour but the boy with knives for lips is right here, _right here_.

 

So devour me, dear.

I'm here. I'm waiting.

 

COMMENTARY:

I knew it would never be simple.

I didn’t have to make it _this_ dramatic, yeah, and I know you're rolling your eyes right now, but everything is always a fire with me. And with him, so you know I’ve found my match.

Really, we make quite the couple. _Romeo and Juliet 2.0_

I'm kidding; we’re way better than those little fuckers.


	9. first time

FLASHES:

 

-buzzing

-patchwork skin

\- your face in my space

-tequila headache

\- your face still in my space

\- “fuck off”

-a light bulb joke

-a light bulb man

-possible exaggeration

-windscreen vision

-t h r o t t l i n g

\- a smirk/ a smile// you know when you smile it’s like the stars are alive / _wow_ _ok_ _shut up / _ “CHILL”

-incidental or incendiary laughter

-closer; face in my space arms in my space; _closer_

- **chill**.

-sudden   ** _S P I K E_**

-spilling laughter: filling up: closer & closer &

                                                                   -here

3..2..1…

\-  a cork a hangnail a throttling a melting a claw shove apple an incisor tooth a watermelon spritzer the taste of a tongue of your tongue of

[a kiss]

   ---

-bricks against spine, back to wall

-the urgency of

\- _run run run the cops are here_

\- [the cops will never catch us]

-liquor burn / bite the apple

\- your lips on mine your teeth on mine your skin on mine mine mine

\- - bridging the gap

 

-clothes on the floor/ body on the bed

-“ _you look beautiful naked_ ” slurred

-a melting away

\- corkscrew bodies/ fitting in/ making space

-RUSH

-pulling

\- _you're pulling my skin apart_

- **crush**

\- but for god’s sake don’t stop

- _don’t stop_

         [jump cut & fade]

COMMENTARY:

I suspect you don’t want any visuals for this particular poem.

But, man, Li, he’s _so good in bed_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh gosh, this one was fun to write. 
> 
> anyway, the next update will probably comprise of just one poem and should be up by next week. 


	10. seafarer

Here’s looking at you, kid

hard candy pressed between

both molars and

sand-studded glory:

sweet mouth, sour mouth,

red lip, uncouth.

                                    

Four, and the world is on the floor:

A fence, a stick, a field, a face

a trainwreck morning,

a trainwreck month.

 

So, then:

lick the dirt off your knuckles,

wipe sea spray off your face,

bite down on your candy.

 

When you're in love,

then it makes sense.

Sandcastles underwater,

and salty innocence.

 

You said you’d

cover the distance

between New York and Maine,

row in on a boat

against the sweeping current

& you said you’d do it

twice over.

 

One summer, shins to knees,

limbs growing, knocking.

 

You grinned

with all your teeth in single file

lightbulb morning, lightbulb month.

 

Pointed over to Atlantis,

said you’d do it.

& you’d do it for me.

 

Everything filling in, pushing out,

sunburst stars sticking

 to the bottom of your tongue.

 

_On another day, in_

_another age_

_we are always,_

_always,_

_in love_

_but not in this one._

 

COMMENTARY:

 

You remember that holiday in Maine? Summer of ’02, the Great Big Ocean, clam dinners? The Casablanca screening where we were too young and we didn’t even get it?

And hey, remember those other kids we used to play with on the beach? Yeah, it turns out one of them ended up going to Samwell.

I only found out after I'd fucked him.

 

Man, that holiday should’ve lasted a month.

 

2.

The number of historical (and geographical) inaccuracies in this one, I swear.

I don’t even really remember anything from that trip.

Well, except for him telling me I looked like a fag.

 

[You have no idea, sis. The things I’ve endured.]

 

3.

He didn’t talk to me for a week after we fucked.

You can imagine the wreckage.


	11. night thief

Late at night,

marshmallow melting

on your lips:

a muse.

 

Late

     at night:

knock knock

   who’s there

_hurry up_

_my roommate’s here_

 

late at

night,

a thief

and knight

 

late, late, late

twinkle fading even as

your limbs

crash crash crash

 

unholy divinity:

when you

part your lips,

a canyon calls

 

my lemonade mouth & your

peach ebony elbows

spread out, pinned down,

fireworms in my gut

your breath in my veins

     and step, step,

and jump

 

a robbery, clear armed:

us gushing and rushing and

_too soon too soon too soon_

 

and then. spent.

looted & empty.

Do you know

what I think about

when I think about

love?

 

Step – step – step : jump

Abyss below

but your

eyes above.

 

COMMENTARY:

For three entire weeks after that one week of agony, we didn’t talk about it. About us, or about us fucking, or about us fucking up.

We didn’t talk about it at all. He’d sneak into my room and sneak out of my room and we wouldn’t say anything.

I'm pretty sure he would’ve worn a mask while fucking me if that hadn’t been too creepy.

 

I hardly got any sleep that month.


	12. sneak

A meringue morning

rose gold at the edges,

melting sepia pink,

snow sugar and milk.

 

The sun peeks in,

pokes in,

wakes the dragon.

 

You are

golden booty,

treasure chest,

hoard of stars.

 

you are

just a man,

in my bed,

on Tuesday,

before class.

 

The sun

lights your hair

on fire

and you are awake

 

sleep-muttering

still-stained,

field of daisies

prostate

 

but only until

you see my

eyes

the deer

in the lights

 

blink,

shove,

crash

 

and then,

gone.

 

COMMENTARY:

The moth and the light and the deer and the car.

Anyway, anyway, he would never stay. He’d be up by dawn most days, shoving on his clothes, stuttering out the door.

Well. Except for this one day, when he accidentally slept in.

And I mean, I know the whole deer thing is a cliché, but you should’ve seen his face.

 

Of course, he got dressed in record time. And I didn’t even bother to tell him that he was wearing my tank top.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo guess who finally updated! Whoo, or something.
> 
> Right, so, the next update probably won't be before the second week of June, because I have to take the SAT :') :')
> 
> Anyway. Do leave comments! And thanks for all the love so far. Y'all are great.


End file.
